at some point the heart wants to be doused in gasoline and lit up
like a bomb. the body will become an altar that thousands
will pray at. the moon will be removed from the flesh like an exorcism
and filled in with an excess of light.
when he calls to say he wants a divorce, when he calls to say the miscarriage
was his fault, grow out your hair
until it swallows you like a flood. stand there in the kitchen with your skin
dripping wet, phone in hand, and tell him only so many hurricanes
can bypass your body
without damaging it.
eventually all rivers lead to the forest where the wolves prowl underneath
the trees that wish to hang themselves
from their own branches.
inhabit that maudlin space between bullet and bulletproof, between fire
and fire escape.
and when he comes home from the office and wants to smash every plate
in the cupboard, offer your limbs as penance instead.
this, your unearthing. the excavation. the paleontologist’s dig.
understand that sooner or later the wristbone wants to detach itself from
the arm and form its own building, complete with a table and chairs.
this is what you tell him: it was not your fault but mine.
you were the one who slid your hand between his legs.
and that’s enough.
each and every life begins with hunger;
they end just the same.